Lion
by nahmanjayden
Summary: A traveler moves through the land, searching for purpose in a world that has only been cold to him. (a Critical Role fanfic, but any character listings would be a spoiler for later chapters)


Chapter One

The rains had begun to fall steadily the previous night, darkening the skies above. Such a downpour could only increase in time, the traveller knew, shoulders hunched as he strode down the cobbled road. His footfalls were heavy, kicking up splashes before him, the mud staining and running down all that could be seen of the dull metal beneath.

When he arrived at the tavern, he was completely sodden, a downtrodden expression on the visible half of his face. His hood was pulled low over his eyes, but as he entered, it was tossed back. The man beneath was young, but extremely tired, with the beginnings of frown lines creasing his face. He was far too young for them, and yet they were there.

Narrowed eyes flickered about the space before him. A quiet little space, lit with warm light from a low stone fireplace. There were very few patrons, as the hour was so late and the weather so foul, but a few drunkards huddled over their mugs in a desperation often mistaken for cold indifference.

Hesitating but a moment, the traveller loped over to the bar and sat heavily, seeming not exactly comfortable in his surroundings. The bartender noticed this and came to a stop before him, needlessly polishing a glass tankard with a cloth.

"You lost, lad?" he asked, voice gruff but a hint worried for the youth before him.

At his words, the traveller looked up, gaze distrusting and voice sharp and cold. "I am not."

The bartender merely shrugged, not one to press for information, and set the tankard down. "Well then, what'll it be?"

"...whatever ale you've got," came the response, and so the alcohol was poured.

Rain battered the window outside even more fiercely than before. The low structure was battered by the gale, making a good deal of noise, enough that the patrons barely looked up when the door was thrown open once more.

Everyone took notice, however, when a great voice rumbled through the room. "GERALT."

The bartender started, his rag dropping to the floor as his head whipped around. So close as he was, the traveller saw his expression; the fear was uncanny for a man so imposing.

When the speaker moved into view, the traveller could see why. His face was scarred, his nose and left eye most prominent, the flesh twisted away as if by flame or acid. He was build in a very sturdy way, typically reserved for dwarves, but not so, as this human stood at a good bit over six and a half feet tall. He was dressed in clean, yet soggy, clothes, the fine black coat not as long as to attract mud. His shoulders were broad. His fists were clenched. It was clear he was in a very foul mood.

Geralt, the bartender, winced as the other approached. "Simon? What are you doing here?" He attempted to hide the tremor in his voice, to no avail.

Simon sneered as he leaned in, grabbing a fistfull of the bartender's shirt. "Here to collect. You've been late one too many times, Geralt."

"No, w-wait now, Simon," the bartender managed, hands up as he tried to appease the angered man. "I was told I would have more time-"

"Time's up," the other negated, releasing Geralt momentarily as he moved around the bar. Then, he slung an arm across the bartender's shoulders. "Let's take a walk, you and I. It's such a nice night, after all."

Eyes wide, Geralt did not fight, instead allowing himself to be led toward the door.

No one looked up, but the traveller saw it all. While his head was down, it turned slightly to follow the pair toward the door, hands shaking a bit as they rested on the cool wood of the bar. He felt the fading bruise on his face, so prominent in his mind. Further back, as though an echoing reminder, he felt the old scar at the base of his skull burn. _Keep your head down._

The pair reached the threshold, and Simon pushed the door open in a grand gesture, inviting the bartender to step forward. After a hesitation, he was instead shoved to get him moving. The traveller could hear the sound of a boot catching on the divide between inside and out, then a faint thump and splash as the man was sent sprawling. Simon just gave a laugh, one that vanished into the wind as he, too, stepped out.

The door swung shut. All was silent. No one moved.

The traveller stood suddenly, abandoning his drink on the bar, feeling certain that it would vanish by the time he returned.

By the time the door opened once more, Geralt was on the ground, spluttering in a mixture of rainwater and his own blood. Though in the mud, he was still held up by Simon, who had a hand around his neck and the other raised, ready to strike once more. Any other night, perhaps the surly bartender would have had a chance, but with the conditions presented, he would most likely either bleed out or drown.

In gleeful cruelty, Simon wondered which would happen first.

Suddenly, he felt a slight sting on his throat, one he had felt before. Glancing down, he could see a blade, gleaming in the downpour, pressed against his throat.

With the great wind and rain, the traveller had made his approach silent enough, and now had the attacker at his mercy. "Release him!" he shouted over the gale, grip now quite still on his sword.

Immediately, the bartender was dropped in the mud, where he lay gasping at his changed fate.

"Move away!" the traveller barked once more, and so Simon did, the blade still flush against his neck as he backed up several places. "Why did you attack this man?"

Something between a grin and a grimace came to Simon's face as he glanced at his captor, taking in his youthful face and wide eyes. "Boy, you speak of things you do not-"

"I asked you a question!" the traveller reiterated, digging the blade slightly into his neck, voice rising both in volume and in pitch.

Young or not, the boy would kill him if Simon did nothing, so he nervously cleared his throat, feeling a trickle of his blood roll down the nape of his neck. "He owes protection money to my boss."

"Your boss? Who?"

"DeVale. Everyone's boss." Confidence regained, Simon looked to his captor once more, gaze mocking. "Not from around here, huh?"

A snarl came to the traveller's face, but his sword did not waver. "I… I will let you go, but you will not hurt this man anymore. Do you understand?"

"Boy," Simon began, beginning to step forward, confident that his captor would lose his nerve. "I will do whatever I damn please-"

The ground, covered in water and mud, proved treacherous. The attacker took a step forward, and immediately slipped, pitching forward across the traveller's sword.

There was a spray of blood in the night, a bright, crimson slice in the moonlight. Simon did not die immediately; the momentum left the sword embedded in the touch muscle and bone of his neck, cleaving through nearly halfway. He choked, gurgling, a full-body shudder running through him, held aloft only by the stunned traveller.

He dropped his sword, Simon laying, shaking and being drained of blood on the ground, beside Geralt, who had allowed darkness to overtake his vision.

Eyes wide and horrified, the traveller shakily sat upon the ground, staring down at his work. Shivering hands lifted to his face, and he rocked for a mere moment.

Then, he stood, fleeing out into the rain and night.

Two men and a sword lay in the road.

A drink sat upon a bar.


End file.
